hoping never to let you return
by AntaresTheEighthPleiade
Summary: Wirt and Beatrice celebrate the winter solstice. Then things go wrong. Part of The Pilgrim's Progress.


hoping never to let you return

Beatrice has never seen so many frost flowers. Delicate curls of ice spring from the stems of crownweed and ironweed, wisps of white against the browns and yellows of late fall. She wants to touch them, though she knows better. A touch will destroy them.

"No, no, keep coming," Wirt says, barely restraining his excitement.

"What, you've found a more impressive batch?"

"Yes, actually. Now come on."

Rolling her eyes, Beatrice follows him. He's light on his bare feet, seemingly oblivious to the cold, leaving barely any trace of his passage. Yet despite all that, he doesn't go too far ahead of her. In fact, he's so close that she'd trip over him if he were to stop too suddenly. It might, she reflects wryly, be his way of ensuring that she doesn't see these mysterious frost flowers of his before he wants her to.

"Here," Wirt announces, stepping to the side and gesturing grandly.

It's an edelwood, its faces oddly faded, and every single branch and twig is crowned with frost flowers. They catch every scintilla of light, shining like spun crystal.

"You're right," she finally says, when she can speak again, "this is more impressive. I didn't even know that edelwoods could do this."

"I didn't either," Wirt admits. He has his poetry book in one hand, his pen in another; he must have thought of a verse that he doesn't want to forget. "Then again, I'd never actually seen a frost flower in person before, so what do I know?"

"Never?" Beatrice echoes. "There's always at least one or two per year here." A thought strikes her, and she smirks, poking at an antler. "Is there anything else I should know about you and frost flowers?"

"No," he sniffs, "there is not. You terrible person."

Beatrice's grin widens. She's about to tease him further when a familiar expression flits across his face; then her smile dies, replaced by a thunderous scowl. "Who's come to protect me from the scary monster this time?"

"Junior and Wallace," Wirt answers, voice carefully level.

"Fudge," she growls, long habit turning the profanity to something more younger-sibling-friendly. "Seriously?" She flings up her hands.

"They're just trying to protect you," he reminds her.

"I know that perfectly well, Wirt, but they should realize by now that it's_ completely unnecessary_."

Beatrice understands that her family had met Wirt only once, and that for but a few minutes, before his transformation. She realizes that they have little more than stories to guide them—and while some of those tales are of Wirt, others are of the Beast. She sees, sort of, how someone who'd never caught this idiot rhapsodizing about poet things to his turtles might worry about whether or not the Beast's successor might suddenly snap and decide to follow in that old horror's footsteps.

She does _not_ see how this misimpression could survive five minutes of conversation with the dolt. Sure, the glowing eyes are a bit creepy until you get used to them, but this awkward nerd shouldn't inspire her family to follow them whenever they're in the woods. They don't admit it, of course. They're always "out for a walk" or "looking for firewood" or some equally transparent excuse that Wirt pretends to believe while she glares furiously at the offending relative(s).

Even now, her friend is shrinking in on himself, and not just because his antlers have vanished. It makes anger bubble in her belly.

"Hey, Wirt, do you want to join us for Solstice Week?"

He blinks at her, utterly baffled. "Doesn't part of that involve a ritual that's meant to drive me away?"

"To drive the _Beast_ away," Beatrice correct him. "It won't do anything to you except maybe make you sneeze. You'll be fine."

Wirt's eyes flit towards the part of the forest her brothers are approaching from. "I'm not sure if that's a good idea."

"They have to get used to you sometime," Beatrice growls, "and they won't if you keep leaving as soon as they get suspicious. You realize that that just makes you look guilty, right?"

"Seriously, Beatrice, I really don't think—"

"Too bad, you're coming," she declares. "Be at my house by sunrise on the twentieth; it'll take a few hours to get into town."

"But," he begins, then falls silent at her glare.

"Oh, Beatrice!" exclaims a familiar voice. Junior, Wallace at his heels, steps into the clearing. "And hello, Wirt. I didn't know you were visiting."

"We're getting firewood," Wallace says, gesturing at the ax in Junior's hand.

This is the part where Wirt usually makes a bit of small talk while trying not to droop too visibly and Beatrice seethes in silence. Today, though, she is beyond fed up with these idiots. She opens her mouth, not certain what she's going to say but fully aware that it won't be polite.

But it seems that she's not the only one fed up with this routine.

"I'll help," Wirt announces. The humans startle; this is not how it goes. The Pilgrim strides over to a fallen tree, presses his hand upon it. It cracks, splits into pieces, hours of labor done in a mere moment. "I saw a couple suitable trees closer to the house that I can split for you once we've brought this back. How much firewood were you hoping to get?"

"…As much as possible," Junior answers.

Beatrice's smile is sharpness and poison. "Here you go, brother dear," she chirps, hefting the heaviest log into his arms. He staggers slightly under the weight as she selects another, somewhat smaller burden for her other brother. Wallace is younger than Junior and can't carry quite so much, but she's not going to let him off easy. Not this time. "And for you, other brother dear." Wallace oofs.

The four of them return to the millhouse with Wirt and Beatrice carrying most of the conversation. He seems to want to speak of inane things, doubtless in deference to her brothers' palpable discomfort, but Beatrice isn't quite so merciful. She directs the talk back to his caretaking, then to the edelwood tree in the clearing with the oddly faded faces. Had he done something to it?

Wirt had indeed done something to the edelwood. Basically, he found a way to lay the soul within to rest, then use the already-existent tree to soak up any corruption in the area. The ice-studded edelwood he'd shown her would be significantly smaller by spring, only as tall as he is, since there hadn't been too much nastiness to sponge up.

Beatrice very carefully does not let on that what her friend had just described to her is absolutely incredible. Wirt had, with exactly zero formal training (unless one counts that time he'd had a single conversation about faceless edelwoods with the dead Beast and nearly died, which she does not) and less than a year's experience under his belt, invented a completely new magic in between cleansing befouled places and the bizarre adventures he gets into trying to bolster his reputation. She knows that he doesn't need to sleep, but that's still pretty impressive.

She will never, ever tell him. At least he doesn't seem to know; he's laughing about his blunders inventing this process, completely oblivious to the fact that he's apparently a natural and quite possibly a genius at this whole Caretaker thing. Beatrice's brothers are less sanguine. They, like her, realize the enormity of what Wirt's done, and are staring at him with expressions of mild horror. Wirt, thankfully, is looking at her rather than them and doesn't notice.

As the day goes on and Wirt quietly refuses to stop helping with firewood, Junior and Wallace begin to unwind around him. Eventually they start up a conversation of their own, then join in Wirt and Beatrice's talk. By the time supper rolls around and they've gathered enough firewood to last half the winter, the human boys seem to have finally gotten it through their thick heads that Wirt is (mostly) harmless.

It's about _time_.

Mom calls for supper. Wirt excuses himself; he has another journey to take and won't be back for several days. "See you soon, Wirt," Beatrice says.

He meets her eye and nods ever so slightly. She smirks. "Yeah," Wirt agrees. "I'll see you."

* * *

Wirt doesn't come back on the twentieth. He arrives late on the nineteenth, his presence heralded by a distant echoing song. When Beatrice (and Carol, who "needs a breath of fresh air") go out to greet him, they find that he's carrying a sack full of fresh berries.

"What are those for?" Carol asks.

"Beatrice told me that there's a market during Solstice Week where everybody trades their surplus. I thought I'd bring something to add to your stock, since I'm going with you."

"…What?" Carol asks blankly.

"I invited him a month ago," Beatrice explains.

"And you didn't think to mention it?"

"Nope," the older sister replies glibly.

"Are you _sure_ that Mom and Dad will approve?"

"It's not like they can stop him from coming," Beatrice points out. "Solstice Week is for the entire community, and like it or not, Wirt's part of the Unknown now." She's starting to think that he might be part of it forever, though she still hopes, for his sake and Greg's, that he can give up this mantle (even if he is good at it, even though the forest is so much happier and healthier and brighter under his stewardship, even though she thinks he might have made peace with his role). She cracks a grin. "Besides, _I_ personally think they'll be thrilled that I'm bringing a young man to the holiday."

Wirt splutters in a very satisfactory manner as Beatrice reaches up to pat his cheek.

Peggy and Patrick O'Sialia are not, in fact, thrilled that Beatrice is bringing this young man to the holiday, but to their credit, they try to hide it. They welcome Wirt relatively warmly and even offer to let him spend the night in their parlor—they've always been polite to him, if rather distant—but the Pilgrim declines. He isn't particularly comfortable inside at the best of times, and he's probably trying to not wear out his welcome. He deposits his offering next to the rest of the food that they're bringing into town and disappears into the night.

When he's gone, Peggy turns back around to glare at her eldest daughter. "Are you certain that it's a good idea to bring him, dear?"

"Yes." Her eyes narrow. "Do you have some reason to not approve of that?"

Her mother sighs heavily, sinking into a chair. She looks almost old, now, and very tired. "Beatrice," she says quietly, "I actually _do_ like him."

Beatrice scoffs.

"It's true," Peggy continues. "I think that he's kind and intelligent and that he tries very, very hard to be as unlike the Beast as possible. I also think that he might not always succeed. Do you remember when we were bluebirds and instinctively knew all sorts of things? How to fly, which foods to eat, how to make nests?" She meets her daughter's eyes. "And sometimes, those urges were very difficult to ignore. Sometimes, we gave in." A sad smile. "For us, that wasn't so bad. The worst that came of it was a few dead bugs and a lot of teasing. For him, though, the consequences would be… significantly more severe."

Beatrice shakes her head. "He doesn't have those kinds of instincts, Mom. Yeah, he turned one evil witch into edelwood, but that was to save two kids' lives and he had no idea what he was doing. He—"

"—was acting on instinct," Peggy interjects. "Which he does quite frequently. How else could he take so easily to his magic? Why else would he sing those songs?"

"…Okay," she's forced to admit, "maybe he does have some instincts, but they're all good or at least neutral impulses. The Beast was a monster because he chose to be, not because it's part of this whole Horned Lord thing." Her mother does _not_ need to know that a part of the Beast lives on in Wirt, that he's picked up at least a couple mannerisms from the old shadow of the forest. There's a difference between tilting one's head while asking questions and constantly suppressing the urge to murder children.

"Beatrice, have you ever wondered if he's trying a little too hard?"

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"That maybe he puts so much effort into being a good person, into _not_ being the Beast, because it's difficult for him, like Junior when we were bluebirds."

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard," Beatrice snaps, bristling.

"I hope you're right," Peggy sighs. "I want you to be right, Beatrice, because I truly do like Wirt the person. Your father does too. But as much as we like him, we don't know if we can trust him."

"Are you seriously suggesting that Wirt is secretly battling the urge to murder us all because he's _too nice_?" Beatrice demands.

Peggy chuckles. "You're right. It does sound ridiculous when you put it that way. I'll try to keep an open mind, okay, sweetheart? And I'll ask everyone else to do that too. I just hope you're right about him."

* * *

Kenningdole is all aglow when they reach it the next evening. Candles shine from every windowsill, from the lamps all along the streets, from every grave in the cemetery. They haven't lit the Solstice Flame yet—that will wait until tomorrow—but it's still easy to spot the village, the light acting as a beacon.

They arrive a bit later than they'd intended. They'd run into another family, old childhood friends of her parents, at lunch time and ended up wasting nearly an hour catching up with them, which they could just as easily have done on the road. The two families (and Wirt, who had been introduced as "a friend of Beatrice's from a place so far away you've probably never heard of it" and occasionally disappeared into the forest to drop his human guise) spent the rest of the journey as one group; they'd had plenty of time to chat.

Patrick has a brother and a sister here in town, so they split the family up for the evening. Wirt disappears between Beatrice's uncle and her aunt, citing unspecified business that he needs to take care of. Beatrice knows that he isn't affected by the cold, but she still grimaces as he leaves. It smells like snow.

Sure enough, they awaken to find that the town has been covered in white, balanced precariously atop every twig and branch and less precariously atop peoples' roofs. The snow will not remain in position long, of course—children are already shaking it down from trees, giggling as it soaks their friends and siblings—but it will be nice while it lasts.

The first and last days of Solstice Week are typically reserved for business: the first to prepare for the upcoming festivities, the last to ward against the oncoming winter. The fresh fruit Wirt provided sells out very quickly. It's gone so swiftly, in fact, that they sell the rest of it before Wirt appears.

"Where have you been?" Beatrice demands.

He has the grace to look embarrassed. "I was decorating and then I found a couple gardens that were in really bad shape."

Beatrice rolls her eyes, trying not to smile. "Decorating?"

Wirt gestures at a stalk of amaryllis poking through the snow. "Things like that. They don't mind the cold. Actually…." He's been keeping his other hand behind his back this entire time. Now he extends it towards her, revealing a flower crown of pink-and-red amaryllis and pale snowdrops woven together.

"The flowers don't mind being picked?"

"Surprisingly, they don't. At least, not these ones." He puts the wreath atop her head, straightens it. "Happy Solstice, Beatrice."

"Happy Solstice, Wirt."

They spend the rest of the day in the market, stopping only for a meal at the bustling local inn. Patrick and Wirt spend half of lunch arguing about the profits from the fruit; Patrick thinks that Wirt should keep it, but Wirt insists that it was a gift. In the end, Wirt accepts a token sum, though not without some embarrassment.

If a disproportionate amount of their earnings go to Beatrice, Wirt's default partner for the afternoon, then nobody comments.

As sunset approaches, the villagers and their guests meander closer to the very center of the town, where they lay logs—one from every person—onto the gigantic pile that will become the Solstice Flame. The mayor lights it when darkness falls; it will shine through the longest night of the year until the festival is over, and they will cook their food and warm their drinks over blazes lit from the great bonfire. Since the inferno is still new, they won't get supper for another hour or two. The celebrants adjourn to Town Hall for dancing and conversation.

It is at this point that things begin to go wrong.

Two of Beatrice's cousins make a beeline for her and Wirt as soon as they enter the building. "We need to talk," Bertram announces solemnly. "You, too. Wirt, right?"

"Yes."

"He's Bertram and I'm Lottie," the other cousin announces. "No need to look so nervous."

Wirt remains distinctly nervous, but he accepts the invitation-command without protest. He and Beatrice are led to a mid-size home a couple blocks away, where a cluster of three young townsfolk are talking quietly. One is red-cheeked from the cold, one wears thick braids, and one's ears glint with silver. She must be well-off. They all fall silent when the newcomers enter.

"Everyone," says Bertram, "this is my cousin Beatrice, and this is her friend Wirt. He's the one who killed the Beast."

Beatrice's first reaction is indignation. She'd tried telling people, including Bertram and his immediate family, that the Beast was dead for literally _months_, only to be met with skepticism and barely veiled accusations of making things up. _Now_ Bertram chose to believe her? _Now_, with the Beast's successor right there in the room with them?

…Oh, stars. She can already tell that this is going to end in disaster.

"No, I'm not," Wirt lies.

"Yes, you are," says Lottie. "Last year, Beatrice swore up and down that you'd discovered his weakness and killed him to save your brother."

Wirt's hands involuntarily twitch towards the satchel containing the Dark Lantern, but his face remains mostly calm. Only someone who knows him could see the trace of panic.

"We'd like your help," Lottie continues. "_Both_ your help. We'll need as many people as possible to kill the Pilgrim."

Yeah, she'd had a nasty feeling that this was why they were wanted.

"Um," says Wirt.

He's clearly not going to be much help (no surprise there), so Beatrice takes over the conversation. Folding her arms, she points out, "Yeah, that's easier said than done. I for one am not going to wander around the forest for months on the off-chance that we'll stumble across this Pilgrim fellow."

"We don't have to," Bertram tells her. "He's in the area right now."

"I heard him singing last night," explains Braids.

(Seriously, Wirt? Seriously?)

Lottie takes over. "It gets worse. I heard a new theory recently. You know that story about how a witch got turned to edelwood on his own threshold? Well, two kids escaped from the house before the monster could get them. A little while later, they met a man who looked completely normal and human… and who called himself the Pilgrim."

"What an odd coincidence." Wirt's voice is higher than normal. He clasps his long-fingered hands behind his back. "But I suppose that 'Pilgrim' didn't have all these unpleasant connotations then, so it doesn't necessarily mean anything."

"But what if it does?" Lottie leans forward. "What if the Pilgrim is a shapeshifter? We've been doing research, and this one old book says that the Beast could take on animal forms, years and years ago. It's not that far-fetched that this one could disguise himself as a normal human. For all we know, he could be in this very town right now, learning our defenses, plotting all sorts of horrible things."

"I think you've been listening to too many ghost stories," Beatrice snaps. There are two rifles in the room, and everybody has knives. Red Cheeks and Silver are sitting between her and Wirt and the door. They can run if they have to, but she'd really rather not have to. "What do you even want to do, go around hitting people on the head to see if they sprout antlers?"

"No," replies Red Cheeks. "We just need a little bit of blood, that's all, and it's not like we have to interrogate everyone. The Pilgrim is supposed to be very tall, very skinny, brown hair in a ponytail, smooth deep voice, likes dressing all in… black…."

Aaaaand now they're all staring at Wirt. Wirt, who already has a known connection to the Beast, whose eyes catch the light so strangely, whose shadow is so much darker than theirs, who is currently holding himself inhumanly still. In short, he could hardly look more suspicious if he tried.

Beatrice laughs. She laughs long and loud and sharp, attracting all eyes in the room to her. "You think that this idiot's the Pilgrim?" she cackles. "You think that Wirt can, can do magic and control shadows and make edelwood trees? That's the stupidest thing I've heard in my life."

Wirt gives a nervous little chuckle. "Yes. That is, no, I'm just a normal human with no connection to the Pilgrim whatsoever. Hah."

"Then let's see your blood," Lottie demands. She's pale, so very pale, and gripping the knife at her belt with trembling hands.

"No! I'm scared of blood. Especially my own." His hands are all aflutter, a mannerism he shares with his predecessor. "Very, very frightened. I'm a terrible coward. I should probably just—"

Lottie lunges, the knife flashing in her hand.

She's fast, but Wirt is faster still. He whirls aside, instinctively covering himself—and half the room—in a thick wall of darkness.

What happens next is a confusion of screaming and cursing and thrown objects. Beatrice stumbles through the darkness, groping for the door. "Wirt, give back the lights!" she yells. "Everybody else, calm—"

Arms grab her. Something cold and sharp presses against her neck.

Beatrice's first impulse is violence, but common sense catches up to her before she slams her heel down onto her captor's toes. If they jerk their hand in response to the pain, then the knife will tear into her throat. She'd rather avoid that, so she would need to find some other way out.

"Lights, Beast," orders a wavering voice. Braids. "Lights, or I'll cut her throat."

The darkness recedes—or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that the darkness condenses, drawing together to cover a tall antlered figure with shadows that are blacker than black, so thick they're almost solid. His eyes are a brilliant contrast, blue yellow pink and blazing. A low growl emanates from his throat, soft and dark and utterly inhuman.

"What the hell?" Bertram is gaping. "Let her go!" At his side, Lottie hefts her own knife.

"I mean it," Braids continues, her voice trembling. "I _will_ cut her open!"

Wirt's eyes narrow to tricolored slits. "You can t̖͓ṛ͕͖̹͈͓y͖̱̬̻̖."

"Excuse me?" Beatrice exclaims. Her neck brushes against the knife, but there's something off about the sensation. It's too smooth, too dull. Beatrice nearly goes cross-eyed trying to see what happened.

"L̶et ̀he̸r ̧g̷o̷," Wirt snarls.

The woman squeaks and… obeys. Her knife clatters to the ground, and she staggers backward to half-collapse against the wall. Beatrice looks down, sees that the knife's wooden handle had grown to form a thin sheath over the blade.

"Beatrice," whispers Lottie, "we need to run. Now."

"No we don't," she scoffs, and strides right up to Wirt's side. Her cousins gasp, Bertram startling forward, Lottie's hands jerking. "Wirt, drop the scary act so we can talk this out like nice, sane people. The rest of you, sit back down."

Braids bolts. Wirt twitches towards her, but stops almost immediately, though his eyes don't narrow any less. Beatrice almost asks why he isn't stopping her, but then she realizes that Red Cheeks and Silver have already disappeared, leaving her alone with her cousins and friend.

Her very nervous cousins, one of whom is still gripping her own blade, and her all-too-Beastly friend, whose eldritch darkness and burning eyes and general ominous looming are not helping the situation one bit.

"_Wirt_," Beatrice hisses, jabbing him in the stomach, "quit scaring my cousins. Lottie, put the knife away, and Bertram, get away from those rifles."

The shadows melt away. The great branching antlers vanish. A blink, and his eyes return to human brown.

Beatrice yanks him down by the ear, ignoring his pained grunt. "See?" she exclaims. "Harmless."

"What did you do to her, Beast?" Lottie chokes.

"The flower crown," breathes Bertram.

Beatrice takes it off. The part of her that isn't fixated on damage control notes that the flowers haven't faded at all because of course they haven't. "He's not controlling me, I swear. Now listen up. There's four of us and three of them. If we all get our stories straight, we can pass this off as a… prank, or a hallucination, or something, and keep word from spreading any further. Any suggestions?"

"How long has she been under your control, you monster?" demands Bertram. He's inching towards the rifles again.

"I'm not controlling Beatrice," Wirt protests. "Have you _met_ her? I don't think anybody can control her. Besides, my power set doesn't include mind control."

"He's right, I'd be a terrible slave. Bertram, knock that off." He doesn't. Wirt huffs softly, makes a short sharp gesture. The rifles sink into the wooden floor.

"Yes, this nerd somehow took over from the Beast," Beatrice continues. "But he's different! He… he names his turtles after famous poets from his homeland. He spent half the night putting flowers everywhere to decorate for Solstice Week. He once spent a week trying to think of a word that rhymes with 'portrait.' He—"

"He murdered a man in his own home!" Lottie yells. "He deliberately terrorizes people—"

"No I don't!"

"—and do you really think that he's just going to let Hattie go free? Beatrice, that _thing_ is lying to you!"

"He's not a thing, he's my friend, and he's a terrible liar! Did you not just see him try to—"

"Beatrice," Wirt interrupts, "we need to get outside _now_."

"We're not running away—"

"There's an angry mob coming, and I don't want them deciding it's a good idea to burn this house down with us inside it." He tugs her arm, leading her outside. Her cousins follow, their gazes glued to Wirt. Beatrice is clearly not doing a good job of talking them around.

Clearly, there is one other option. "Play along or Wirt will turn you both into edelwoods."

"What?!" he yells, head whipping around. "No I won't!"

"Fine. He'll curse you in a slightly less horrifying fashion, but only slightly. Trust me when I say that being cursed is terrible."

The first members of the mob round a corner. Their torches paint their faces in shades of blood and shadow.

"He's the Beast!" Lottie cries, pointing at Wirt. "He did something to my cousin, and now—"

Beatrice ignores the rest of her words. "Wirt, run," she orders quietly, using Lottie's voice to cover her own. "They have guns."

His eyes are hard. "And leave you and your family to take the brunt of their anger? No way."

"That's very noble of you, but—"

The mayor steps forward, a burning torch in one hand, a scythe in the other. Silver, Bertram and Lottie's well-off friend, trails behind her. Even in the torchlight, she looks very much like the mayor, which explains why everyone was so quick to believe her report.

"Begone from our town, Beast," the mayor commands, "and release your hostages—all of them—or we will destroy you."

Beatrice's cousins have backed away, probably fearing wounds from friendly fire (or maybe they were just scared of Wirt). _Would_ they shoot with her so close to their dreaded Beast? She doesn't know.

Wirt stands very straight, very tall. "I am _not_ the Beast," he proclaims, his voice ringing through the crowd. "I'm the _Pilgrim_—" Gasps and exclamations, bodies involuntarily stepping backwards, eyes too wide in the firelight "—and I am _not_ here to hurt you, or kill you, or whatever evil thing you think I intend. Now put your weapons down so we can discuss this like calm, rational people."

"_She's_ not a hostage," spits Silver, pointing directly at Beatrice. "She knew what he was and tried to sell us to him!"

"That's ridiculous," Beatrice protests—but the mob is beginning to move forward again, and an uncomfortable amount of people are hefting their firearms.

Darkness falls, thick and crushing. A weight slams into her side, knocking her to the ground. Something—several somethings—clicks. A score of voices sounds: their guns aren't working. They need fire to shoot, and this darkness does not allow any sparks to ignite.

Then the unnatural black veil over the world is gone, and Beatrice can see.

Every firearm remains cloaked in thick, light-eating night. The townsfolk can see now, but they still can't fire their weapons. Sure, they can try to use them as clubs, but that's not going to work against someone who can simply bring forth trees. The mob's torches are all out, too, she realizes after another moment. Every torch has been snuffed completely, but the windowsills are still lit by candles, their tiny fires dancing, and she can glimpse the more distant light of the Solstice Flame.

Wirt helps her to her feet, his tricolor eyes even brighter than the candles, his face and form completely obscured. She stands beneath the broad expanse of his antlers, shadows curling protectively at her ankles, and looks out at the mob. The mob, she realizes, all despairing, must now be even more frightened of the Beast's successor. The Beast himself hadn't had that power, that precision, that speed for at least a century.

Hopefully they're feeling the kind of terror that will make them see sense, rather than the panicky flailing that will just make everything worse.

"I'm not going to hurt you," the Pilgrim repeats, "and I'm certainly not going to let you hurt me, or my best friend, or her family." His eyes flare white, narrowing to slits. The night itself seems to shudder with suppressed wrath. "They are all of them under my protection, and anyone fool enough to do them harm will get a thorough demonstration of what e̡l̴s͝e I can do. Now put down your useless weapons and just… go back to what you were doing." He slumps a little, eyes dimming. "I'm not here to hurt you. I just don't want anybody else getting hurt, either."

"…Begone, Beast," the mayor says. Her voice shakes a little, but she stands firm. "Begone."

"Okay." The shadows drain away, leaving a tall boy with strange eyes and branching antlers. Backing down, Beatrice knows, trying to show his peaceful intentions. She hopes that the villagers realize that, too. "Happy Solstice Week, everybody."

They don't return the sentiment.

* * *

Remember how Wirt didn't want people to learn that he's a shapeshifter? Yeah, that's not an option anymore. And now people know that Beatrice and her family are the Pilgrim's friends, which will surely not have any negative repercussions whatsoever.

Title for this fic is from "The Tavernkeeper's Song."

Thank you once again to all the amazing readers who have produced reviews, podfic, fanart, and more, and to the rest of you as well. You rock!


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